“ On a scale of one to five, where one is little or no anxiety, how are you feeling about the cave journey tomorrow,” Megan, our fearless leader, asked. “One.” “One and a half.” “Zero,” came the responses from the other women in the room, who had gathered on Crete to explore the island’s ancient Goddess culture. “Five,” I said, my voice cracking with shame. Actually, if I had known then how difficult it would be for me, I would have said, “nine.” I was terrified of falling and worried that the torn meniscus in my knee would act up, but I also knew that I needed to go on this cave journey. I could not have explained why this journey was so important, but I was determined to push through my fears.
From the other side of the circle, a voice piped up, “I’d like to volunteer to be at the back of the line so I can help Judith.” It was Sue, a mother of two boys from Minneapolis. “I have lots of experience leading treks and I’m not at all nervous about this one. I’m convinced that I was a mountain goat in a previous lifetime,” she said with a laugh.
Without Sue’s kindness, I would never have been able to complete the cave journey. I could not know then that descending into the cave and climbing back up would be a symbol of the healing journey I was about to make into the depths of my own psyche. I did not know that the prayers I uttered in the darkness of the cold rock womb would be answered in the brilliant sunlight of an ancient temple, or that months of hard work would pass before I could really integrate the whispered message of hope.
The central myth of Crete is the story of the Minotaur. As Megan told the story, the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon, had sent Minos, the king of the island, a magnificent white bull. Instead of sacrificing the bull to the god, the greedy king kept the bull for himself. Poseidon’s revenge was to make Minos’s queen, Pasiphae, fall in love with the bull; from their union was born the Minotaur, half man, half bull, a living reminder of the king’s sacrilege. Minos commanded the royal architect to build a labyrinth under the palace to keep the monster out of sight. To appease the Minotaur, the powerful king demanded that his vassal states render an annual tribute of noble young men and women. The youths were trained to perform the Cretan art of bull-leaping, before being led to the labyrinth, never to return.
After some years of this, the Athenian prince, Theseus, decided to take matters into his own hand and slay the beast. He volunteered for the yearly tribute. On the way to Crete, he worked with his fellow captives, so that by the time of the bull-leaping performance, they were a tightly-disciplined team. His performance and comeliness caught the attention of Pasiphae and Minos’s daughter, Ariadne, a priestess of the Snake Goddess, who danced in the temple rites. The night before Theseus was to be sent into the maze, Ariadne gave her lover a red thread, that he could use to find his way back out, and a labyris, the bronze double-headed ax sacred to the Goddess, with which to slay the Minotaur.
The night before the cave journey, the 13 women on our tour gathered in the common room of the retreat center for a grief ritual to clear our hearts. A large low table was set up as the altar, adorned with scarves and objects sacred to each of us: a crystal wand, a statue of the snake mother goddess of Crete, a deck of tarot cards in a velvet pouch, an embossed silver portrait of Jesus. We stood in a circle, singing the simple chant that Megan had earlier taught us while she drummed on and on. Whenever the spirit moved one or more of us, we sat or knelt in front of the altar and prayed/cried/keened our grief while the others witnessed, supporting us with their voices and their presence. I cried for my lost marriage, for my lost childhood, for lost love. As everyone’s individual waves of grief rose and fell and ebbed around me, I prayed to the Goddess to help me let go, to help me heal, to help me move on. Gradually, the pain eased as this particular round of grieving came to an end. We went outside for a late-night snack of chocolate and tea, then climbed the stairs to our rooms, opening the verandah doors to the cool, dry air.
After an early breakfast of Greek yogurt, honey, ripe fruit and biscotti-like cookies, we piled into several rental cars and headed for the next village. Our destination, the Cave of the 99 Holy Fathers, might seem an odd choice for a group of women who had gathered to discover the Great Goddess. Or perhaps one should say that it was odd for a cave, which represents the womb of the goddess, to be a place where a group of Christian priests sought refuge from persecution. In any case, this cave was near our retreat center on the south coast and had far fewer visitors than the island’s more famous sacred caverns.
We drove past the village on a single-track dirt road leading up the side of a low scrubby mountain. Thankfully, it was early enough that there were no vehicles coming the other direction. I blanched when I got out of the car and saw the path leading up to the top of the mountain. “It’s just a 10-minute walk from the parking lot,” was all Megan had said about the trail.
The first few minutes were less difficult than I expected; the trail was rocky but wide, with no precipitous drops to either side. As we neared the cave, the rocks became boulders. At the mouth of the cave, we pulled out the pants and sweaters from our backpacks and turned on the lamps we each wore around our heads. I waited as the other women moved past me, then joined the end of the single-file line walking alongside the cave wall, with Sue falling in just behind me. The plan was that we would all meet at the first chamber, then continue up to the second chamber. Hopefully, we would get there before any other tourists so that we could hold a silent meditation in total darkness.
Before we even got to the first set of ladders, Sue said, “Why don’t you give me your backpack.”
“I can carry it,” I answered stoically.
“It will be easier if I’ve got it. Don’t worry, I can manage it.”
“Okay,” I said, sheepishly.
When we got to the first metal ladder, Sue went down first, then instructed me on how to turn around and grab the handrail while stepping onto the first rung. What if I fall, I thought. But Sue kept encouraging me and I took the chance of trusting her.
“There’s a rung missing here, so make the next step down a big one, okay?” Sue called up to me.
As I climbed down the ladder, I could feel the panic rising, pulling my consciousness out of my body and into my head, out of the safety of the present moment and into my fear of future disaster. I wanted to freeze, but I couldn’t let the group down. I realized that the only way I could get through this experience without panicking was to stay in the moment.
We reached the bottom of the first ladder. “Breathe. Take a deep breath,” Sue told me.
Scrabbling down the rocky path between the first and second ladders, she held my hand.
“Don’t look to your right. Look at the wall on your left.”
Then onto the next ladder.
My heart clenched as I cleared another missing rung.
“Good job. You’re doing fine.”
At the bottom of the second ladder, Sue offered me individually-wrapped hard candies. “The yellow ones are lemon. Take two. I have more,” she added.
Near the bottom of the third metal ladder, she said, “I’m going to lift you over this rung, okay?” In one sure movement, Sue grasped my waist with one arm and lifted me down to the next rung. I was too surprised to be impressed by her strength.
Suddenly, we were in the first chamber of the cave. To the right, a small altar with an icon had been built in the wall. “You’re doing great,” Sue enthused.
We started up the first wooden ladder. Unlike the metal ladders, which had been bolted into the rock wall, these were just leaning against the rock walls. I struggled to not imagine falling backwards.
“Breathe. You need to take a deep breath,” Sue instructed.
I pushed the thought of an earthquake out of my mind.
Just before we started up the second ladder, she kissed my forehead. At the top of the ladder, she took my hand, hoisting me up and into the second chamber. Everyone else in the group was already there, looking for a place to sit for the meditation or for rocks to take home. I picked up three small stones from the cave floor and sat away from the opening. The light from our headlights flickered on the walls, enlarging our shadows so that we appeared to be giantesses.
And then there were noises coming from nearby. Other tourists were arriving. We had arrived too late. And it was all my fault. I started to cry.
Megan got up and went over to the two young men and one young woman, then came back. “They’ve agreed that we can have five minutes.”
Sitting in a circle on the cold floor of the earth mother, we turned off our headlamps. For a moment, one tea light shone bright and then with a breath, it was out. We were in total darkness, holding hands. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, it no longer seemed as pitch black as it had when the candle went out. I realized that I am not afraid of the dark. Eyes wide open, I cried for the wounded boy, for the wounded girl, for the solace they had sought in each other, for the pain of all their losses. And in the silence, I fervently prayed, “Make me whole.”
The climb down the wooden ladders was tough, but as I continued, with Sue’s help and the group’s encouragement, past the first chamber, over the rocks, up the three metal ladders, towards the opening of the cave, I began to feel lighter. A wave of relief came over me as we cleared the entrance and stopped for a group photo against the rocks.
Hiking back to the cars, Sue stopped to take my picture. In the photo, I am laughing. “You look reborn,” she said.
If I was reborn, then Sue was the midwife. I thanked her effusively, insisting that I could not have done the journey without her.
She demurred, saying, “It was an honor to witness your courage, cave sister. “
A week later, the group pile out of taxis at the palace of Knossos, the central palace-temple complex where the Goddess had been worshipped for some 1,500 years. They quickly walked to the far side of the archaeological site, down the steps to a courtyard known as Ariadne’s dance floor. Our leader, Megan, had been told that the guards would break up any attempt at a group ritual on the site, so we each went our own way to individually meditate. I took off my flip-flops and danced barefoot on the warm rock tiles, where the priestesses had danced 4,000 years ago. I sat at the edge of the courtyard, underneath an olive tree, and opened my heart. A voice whispered, “You are already whole.”
Was it the voice of the Goddess or the yearnings of my deepest unconscious? Does it really matter? It was the answer to my prayer in darkness of the cave, the red thread that would lead me out of the darkness of my own past, the truth that my therapist would echo in the ensuing months of intense and deep psychic healing. Not only for me but also for those I have loved, for all who believe that violation left us irreparably broken, it was a message of hope.
